Chapter 5
RAPHAEL
“Ibelieve the basement inventory is proceeding efficiently, sir.”
Geoffrey stood near the window, posture immaculate as always.
“It is,” I said.
“Then additional hours were not strictly necessary.”
I didn’t look up from the document in front of me. “I prefer completion without delay.”
“Of course.” A pause. Geoffrey did not leave. In fact, the slight raise of his eyebrow told me all I needed to know.
“You offered Sunday at double the rate,” he added mildly.
“Yes.”
Another pause. “If I may observe,” he continued carefully, “you do not typically accelerate nonessential projects.”
I set the pen down. “It will be completed faster.”
“Undoubtedly.”
Silence. His infuriating way of communicating without a single word was irritating. He inclined his head slightly and exited. The door closed.
Belle Blythe was in the basement. Again. The project did not require Sunday. It did not require urgency. It required patience, cataloging, and order. It did not require her.
And yet, I had told Geoffrey to offer it at double her hourly rate.
She had accepted within minutes. That part unsettled me more than it should have.
She had jumped at every offer of overtime, and that made me wonder.
Did she need the money? Did she have someone at home missing her?
I had too many questions for our intriguing new housekeeper.
I opened the Columbus renovation file.
Read the first paragraph. Stopped halfway through the second. Then I leaned back in my chair. This woman was terrible for my focus. She hadn’t been here yesterday, and my focus was even worse without her here, which is why I had Geoffrey offer her more hours.
Maybe I shouldn’t, but I decided to take a peek at the camera in the basement.
I wasn’t someone who had many cameras in my home.
I had some outside for surveillance, but inside, they were just in a few key locations; the basement, being full of valuable heirlooms, was one of them.
I was only watching her to make sure she was doing an adequate job . . . even I didn’t believe that.
She worked with focus, which I recognized.
But she moved differently from the staff I was accustomed to.
She filled space. Not loudly. Just . . .
fully. I remembered the way she had rolled up her sleeves yesterday.
The small roller skate tattoo on the inside of her forearm.
Black ink. Simple lines. Worn enough to suggest age.
Derby, I assumed, if the stickers on her van were hers.
The shape had drawn my attention more than it should have. It was always accompanied by an unacceptable line of thought that followed.
She was staff. I did not indulge curiosity about employees. Not their lives. Not the things inked into their skin. And definitely not their curvy, delicious bodies.
And yet— The quiet strength in her forearm as she lifted weighted crates.
The way she braced her stance before moving something heavy.
I stood abruptly. The chair legs scraped softly against the floor. This was a distraction. I did not tolerate distraction.
In the past, I had removed it efficiently. I had fired a concierge for less.
I fired a housekeeper for hovering and another for attempting familiarity. Belle had done none of those things. She had not hovered. I had. That was the distinction I disliked.
I walked to the window overlooking the drive.
Her van remained parked in the same place.
I returned to my desk and forced myself back into the report. Occupancy projections. Quarterly expansion. Labor costs. Numbers were predictable. Desire was not.
I tapped my pen once against the desk, then stilled it. She would finish the basement. The project would conclude. Her presence would decrease. Order would return.
From the camera still pulled up, I heard a laugh.
Just a brief sound of amusement at something unseen.
My jaw tightened. I should not care what she found amusing in my basement.
I should not imagine the expression on her face when she laughed.
I should not want to know what other small markings might exist beneath the fabric on her body.
I opened another file. Read the first line three times.
The craving remained, and it was entirely my fault.
After a few more hours of work, I made my way to the kitchen to warm up some lunch. I didn’t typically use the kitchen. It existed for function. Today required sustenance.
The microwave beeped as I stood at the counter, sleeves rolled precisely, reheating a meal from a meal service I subscribed to. Cooking wasn’t something I had time for usually. I couldn’t remember the last time this kitchen was used for anything besides this.
Movement drifted faintly up from the basement. Footsteps approached from the corridor. The flutter of anticipation danced in my chest. It was a strange feeling.
She appeared in the doorway a second later, a clipboard tucked under one arm, hair slightly loosened from its earlier precision.
“You own a museum,” she said as a way of greeting. She blew a stray strand of hair above her eyebrow before a curious smirk covered her mouth.
“It is storage.”
“It is curated history,” she corrected. “I half-expected a docent.”
I cocked my head, taking her in. “You’re being paid to inventory it.”
“I am. And I’m doing an excellent job,” she said with a cocked eyebrow as she hugged her clipboard to her chest. And that smirk came back. Her casual nature is irksome. Right? Yes, irksome must be the right word for whatever I am feeling.
“Good, make sure that continues.”
The microwave beeped again. I removed the container.
She leaned against the doorframe without invitation.
“Do you ever eat at a table,” she asked, “or is it strictly strategic refueling?”
“I eat when necessary.”
She laughed. She actually laughed at me. Even Geoffrey and Chandler seldom got that brave. Yet, oddly, I didn’t hate it.
“That feels on brand,” she said, still taking in the situation.
Silence settled, but it wasn’t uncomfortable.
My gaze dropped briefly to her forearm as she shifted the clipboard. The roller skate tattoo was visible today. Something about the simple black lines called to me.
“You like roller skates,” I said.
Her eyes followed my line of sight.
“I do.”
“It appears permanent.”
She laughed at me again. I felt the corner of my mouth wanting to turn up in a smile. What was happening right now?
“Yes, that’s generally how tattoos work.”
“What is the significance?” I ask. Or maybe it was a demand, I can’t really tell.
She studied me for a beat, then straightened slightly.
“Roller derby,” she said. “I skate with Grimm Reapers. I block.”
“You block.”
“Yes.”
“You injure people recreationally.”
She smiled. “Only consenting adults.”
I considered that. “It seems unnecessarily aggressive.”
Her smile faltered slightly. I didn’t care for that, but I was still trying to understand the importance.
“It’s a sport.”
“It’s collision.”
“That’s the point.”
I took a bite of my lunch, assessing.
“I don’t like chaos.”
Her posture shifted. Subtle, but present.
“Structured chaos,” she corrected. “There’s strategy. Teamwork. Precision.”
“From what I’ve observed, it’s merely women shoving each other in circles.”
The words left my mouth before I evaluated them.
Silence.
Her expression cooled by degrees.
“From what I’ve observed,” she replied evenly, “real estate is merely men moving paper in circles.”
I paused. She seemed upset. “You’re angry,” I said.
“It sounded dismissive,” she shot back at me.
“That was not my intent.” Why was I explaining myself to this woman? I never explained myself to anyone.
“Impact matters more than intent,” she replied.
There it was again, that steady gaze. She was not intimidated, not shrinking. This woman was a puzzle I had yet to figure out. I liked puzzles, especially puzzles with curves I could get lost in.
“I prefer controlled environments,” I said.
“Derby is controlled,” she said. “We train. We practice. We protect each other.” She shifted her weight. “You should come watch sometime.”
The suggestion surprised me.
“I doubt I would enjoy it.”
“You might.”
“I don’t enjoy unnecessary risk.”
Her jaw tightened. “It’s not unnecessary.”
I realized then that this mattered to her more than I’d accounted for. Which I should have realized, because she had gotten it inked permanently on her body.
“I see,” I said.
“You don’t,” she replied quietly.
The air shifted. What had been light turned careful. I set the container down.
“I . . . uhhh, didn’t . . . ,” I choked out. An apology was sitting on my tongue, but I had not had the words in my vocabulary for years. Yet I found myself wanting to be understood by her as much as I wanted to understand her. It was peculiar.
She held my gaze for a moment longer, then nodded once.
“It’s fine.”
It wasn’t.
“I should get back,” she added, lifting the clipboard slightly.
“Yes,” I said.
She turned and walked down the hallway. Her footsteps faded toward the basement stairs. The kitchen felt colder immediately. I remained standing there longer than necessary.
It had been going well. She had been relaxed.
And I had reduced something she cared about to unnecessary aggression.
I moved to the doorway, listening as the basement door closed softly below.
She did not hum this time. I didn’t like that.
I returned to my study. I opened a file, yet I didn't read it.
I disliked that I cared whether she laughed in my house. I disliked that I had caused her to stop. And I disliked, most of all, that I wanted to go downstairs and fix it.